www.millsandboon.co.uk

      If ever any beauty I did see,

      Which I desired, and got, ‘twas but a dream of thee. (John Donne, The Good Morrow)

      For J, who makes any room our everywhere. Just love.

      AUTHOR NOTE

      Gambling has long been the vice of choice for the rich and famous, from horseracing, the traditional sport of kings, to today’s televised celebrity poker tournaments. It is easy to see the attraction. The heady mix of glamour, money and drama is both alluring and seductive. This was certainly true in Regency London when the Ton and the demi-monde flocked to Hells of St James’s and Piccadilly in search of illicit thrills and excitement.

      But what if more was at stake than money? What if someone was driven to gamble with their body, their feelings, even their virtue? What if losing became more appealing than winning? Freed from society’s conventions and constraints—for how can there be guilt when one has placed one’s fate in the hands of the Gods—what might the gambler learn about his or her secret self?

      This is what I wanted to explore through Isabella and Ewan’s story, where a turn of a card, a throw of the dice decides how shockingly they must behave, what sensual acts they must indulge in. And at stake love, the ultimate prize, can be either won or lost.

      I hope you enjoy reading this, my first ever Undone, as much as I enjoyed writing it. I’d love to hear what you think. You can email me at [email protected]

      Chapter 1

       London, 1785

      The gaming saloon was packed, the clientele mostly male but with a fair sprinkling of women present, too. Thanks to the notorious Duchess of Devonshire, playing deep was very much à la mode for the fairer sex. The air was stifling, the atmosphere redolent of hair powder and scent, brandy and wine, mingled with the musky smell of too many bodies crowded into too small a space. Candles sputtered and flared, casting distorted shadows on the walls.

      “Eight wins.” The large woman in charge of the faro bank glowered as she pushed a pile of counters across the table.

      Isabella Mansfield, her attention focused on trying to calculate the value of her winnings, ignored the woman’s growing animosity. Faith, but it was hot! The fan she wore tied round her wrist provided her with precious little relief. The unaccustomed hair powder irritated her scalp. The rouge she had so carefully applied to her cheeks and lips prickled her delicate skin. The folds of her dark blue polonaise dress and the ridiculous layers of undergarments required to hold the shape in place at the back all contrived to make her distinctly uncomfortable.

      Though they also, she reminded herself, served to ensure that she blended in, looked just like every other woman present. Aside from her complete lack of jewellery that is. Her great-grandmother’s pearls, the only thing of value she owned, had been discreetly sold to provide her stake for this evening. Two more wins, if her luck continued to hold, and she would have enough.

      Captain Ewan Dalgleish watched with interest as Isabella pushed her entire stack of counters onto the two, causing a crackle of excitement to fizz round the throng of eager onlookers. There was something driven about her demeanour, quite different from the recklessness of a genuine gambler. She was clearly nervous: long fingers plucking at the sticks of her fan, her eyes fixed on the dealer’s card box as if it contained the key to her very destiny. Which, he thought, raising his eyebrows as he calculated her stake, it most probably did. He was intrigued.

      On the anniversary of the day he had resigned his commission following his father’s death, and on his thirtieth birthday to boot, he had come to this newest hell made popular by Fox and his cronies in search of diversion. In the past year he had sampled every pleasure, licit or otherwise, the town had to offer, kicking over the traces and flaunting his newly-inherited respectability in the faces of his critics with gusto. Sport, women, sprees like this latest outing—they all provided temporary excitement, but nothing matched the visceral thrill of battle, the gut-clenching intensity of combat. He was coming to believe that the army had leeched all feeling out of him. An intense ennui threatened to overwhelm him.

      He’d had the devil’s own luck with the cards tonight, but it meant little. The fortune his father had left him was immense. And as for the brandy he had imbibed—his mind might be somewhat befuddled, but the abrasive edges of his poisonous mood had been in no way smoothed. To hell with all of it! Even his burning desire to try to right the wrongs of the world offered little solace. What he needed was something more exotic by way of an antidote.

      The beauty at the faro table was most definitely that. Despite the regulation paint and powder, there was something distinctive about her. Winged black brows sat above cobalt-blue eyes fringed with long black lashes. There was a spark of intelligence there. A mouth wider than the fashionable rosebud, the bottom lip full. The long line of white throat swooping down to a luscious swell of bosom. The same flawless white skin on her arms, delicate wrists and long fingers. Slumbering sensuality combined with a haughty touch-me-not air. A challenging and enticing combination.

      At the faro table Mrs Bradley, the banker, was declining the beauty’s bet, clearly afraid it would break the bank. Her many chins wobbled as she shook her head. “I’m sorry, madam, that is twice the maximum stake permitted.”

      “But…” Isabella looked up, embarrassed to find all eyes upon her. Impatient. Speculative. Inquisitive. Leering. Under her rouge, she blushed. Not all the women here were ladies of the ton. Not all the gamblers were gentlemen. With a heavy heart she took back half her counters. At this rate, she would never win as much as she needed. She must have the full funds by the end of the week or all would be lost. She simply had to win enough tonight.

      “With the bank’s permission I will cover the bet, and any others the young lady cares to make.” The deep voice had just the trace of a Scottish lilt.

      Startled, Isabella looked up into the most striking pair of eyes she had ever seen. Amber tinged with liquid brown, the colour of autumn leaves. For a moment they clashed with her own, causing a flicker of excitement to shiver